Fever Pitch
by Black and Red Candles
Summary: Harry's more alive when a Dark Wizard murders him than he ever really was in life. Harry/Draco


**Author's Note:** Mind fuck galore. Enjoy this disjointed piece!

**Disclaimer:** Not mine, I do not own nor make profit from this.

**Warnings:** non-descriptive sex, mind!fuck, squick, my own version of grammar, swearing, Draco/Harry dubcon

* * *

_Fever Pitch_

It all starts when he's in the midst of a battlefield. It's a normal day; Harry Potter is fighting some delusional Dark Arts wizard, and the battlefield is loud with shouts and curses and the floor is slick with blood and tears of everyone – or is it just the rain? Perhaps it's raining blood. Harry wouldn't know. He doesn't care.

He ducks, he's on autopilot. He wishes he had a partner for backup, but everyone had left him long ago, everyone had forsaken him to his job. In the end, it doesn't matter anyways. Harry doesn't want anyone to watch his back; he can handle himself. He's a grown man now.

There's shouting around him; a flurry of screaming Aurors and wizards dueling and battling and fighting and as he leaps over a table – he's aiming for the Dark Arts wizard standing above them all, whose name he doesn't even know, whose past he doesn't know, he's just another face in the crowd of villains – but he can't reach him, because amongst all of the fighting…

Amongst all of the fighting and hissing and human depravity, there's a flash of platinum blond, a glimpse of pale skin, and Harry stumbles, stumbles down to the Earth in more ways than one. That's all it takes, really – one stumble, and the Dark wizard is laughing, laughing at him, and he opens his lips –

Harry scrambles up, or at least tries to, but the floor is so _slick_ –

The Dark wizard is saying something, chanting a spell –

The battle is so _loud_, it drowns out Harry's heartbeat in his ears, drowns out everything into just a simple, killing silence –

And the Dark wizard finishes, and Harry is falling, falling, falling, down to the Earth, and as he falls he wonders why, exactly, he's plunging.

He hits the Earth and sees nothing.

He doesn't see much for a very, very, long while. There's silence here – not oppressive – but there _is_ silence, and it consumes him like a guilty conscience. But…he has nothing to feel guilty about.

So he sits down, crosses his legs, and stares at the floor.

Harry doesn't really think about anything. He's just here, surrounded by empty darkness, illuminated by a spotlight, with nothing on him but his own bare skin. Originally, he'd be embarrassed, he'd be afraid – to such a tantamount extent that he'd probably scream for days on end – but nothing is here, nothing but him.

He cannot pace, he cannot move out of this spotlight. This fact digs, like spurs, into his thoughts, but he doesn't particularly mind. For the first time in years, he doesn't feel guilt, or unrelenting anger, or…anything negative.

For once, he feels smug, and he doesn't quite know why yet, but he has a feeling he'll find out.

So he sits, and waits, and finally, he feels sleep overtake him.

He sees and hears nothing.

The first time he wakes up, he can feel the scratchiness of a blanket touching his clammy skin, can feel the bed trembling and shaking from roars of thunder that, Harry assumes, would be deafening…

But he cannot hear, he cannot see, and he stumbles out of the bed, feels the dry wood beneath his feet creak and groan under his weight, stumbles until he runs into a wall, and feels along it, until he can feel a shaking, smooth surface under his hand.

It's a window, and it's cold, unlike him, so he leans his head against it…and he realizes, with a start, that he can see, at least for now. He almost wishes he couldn't – because all he can see, outside the little tiny room he is in – is black, obsidian clouds pouring down torrent after torrent after torrent of unforgiving rain unto the Earth. Harry leans into the window. He watches his breath create a fine film of whitish vapor on the pane.

Then, when he finally thinks he might be able to hear the thunder, he slumps against the window and is gone.

This time, the darkness around him is not so clean and sterile; it feels infected and it stings like a thorn in his unfeeling side, it leaves him feeling on edge and unsettled.

This time, he does not sit down and peacefully fall asleep. Instead, Harry stands, and looks into the depthless murk, as if he expects someone to be there –

And he chokes, because this pale hand _fuckingshootsoutsofast_ and it crushes his neck with brute force. Tendons in the hand jump with force, Harry chokes and gurgles because he alternately is struggling for his life, and feeling alive for probably the very first time. His hands, softer than anyone thought they could ever be, come up to wrap around the wrist of his assaulter –

He feels no pulse –

And a quite chuckle comes from somewhere near the arm.

There's a smirk in the voice when it speaks, a lilt of amusement, a lick of disgust, "_Don't you know?"_ And Harry wants to scream, scream back that he doesn't know _anything_, but the voice is already speaking in a soft, predatory voice, _"Don't you know, Harry, that you're going to die?" _Harry wants to say, _yes, yes, I am going to die because you're _choking_ me, you fucking bitch –_

But the arm drops him, and caresses his cheek. The hand is soft, like a girl's would be, and the fingers are long and delicate, like rose petals, and Harry bites it without hesitation.

He gets no satisfaction from it, though, because instead of a yelp of pain, all Harry is rewarded with is, _"Don't you know, Harry Potter? You're going to die."_

And _that_ stays in his head.

The next time he wakes up, he can hear Hermione crying in the other room – and then it hits him, he can _hear_ and _see_ and, and…her whimpers come from the other room.

"He can't be dead! He _isn't fucking dead!_" She screams suddenly, and, to be honest, Harry isn't impacted by it at all. He's perfectly alive and well, just as he always was, so it must be someone else that died…

He looks down at his hands. They're white in the darkness of the room, almost as if he was illuminated by a spotlight; white, in the otherwise oppressing black of nighttime. Then, in the blink of an eye, the entire room – it's filled with nothing – is illuminated horribly by a flash of white.

_Why is this so familiar?_

Harry doesn't want to look to the window. He can hear the rain slamming itself into the window over and over again, never tiring; he can see the flashes of lightning that light up the room like all-seeing, disorienting, distorting, strobe lights. He doesn't want to look at the window, at the monsoon outside, because he's filled with a dread that he can't truly place.

"_You're going to die,"_ And it's like pale fingers grabs his chin, with their fingers tearing into his skinmusclesbeing and wretches his head and he stares, wide-eyed and boyishly, out of the window.

It's a fucking monsoon.

Hermione screams as she enters the room and Harry is already gone on the floor by the time her eyes fall on his body.

"_You're going to die, Harry."_ The voice says, but this time, Harry stubbornly turns away from it. _"Did you know?"_ And mentally, Harry chants, in a mantra, _yes, I do know._

He can't distinguish, now, which world is reality. Is this cold, peaceful world now his reality, or is it a dream? He doesn't remember anything here. He doesn't have any stigma attached to this glorious, unchanging world.

"_Did you know?"_

Harry doesn't want to leave. He's so desperate to escape that other world, to escape the friends that didn't abandon him, but simply convinced himself that _they_ were the ones to rape him of what he had, everything he had, when…

Harry had been the one to kill their child, hadn't he? He'd had red hair that fell to his ears in untamed curls, and freckles that heavily dusted his cheeks like stars in the sky. Harry doesn't remember the name. He doesn't even remember the gender; out of sheer lack of memories of a distinct gender, he calls their child a he.

Harry doesn't feel one bit of remorse for killing the child. He does, however, feel remorse for lying about it to himself. He'd had to leave. He'd had to get away.

He curls up on himself, and he can hear a quiet, soft, seductive chuckle sliding down his spine as he weeps like he never had in life.

"_You're going to die, so cry, Harry."_

This time, the world _is_ a strobe light, and Harry can only see the briefest flashes, like lightning had taken over his brain and hotwired itself into his eye sockets and made itself perfectly at home.

He hates it, because he can no longer hear, and it's _frustrating._ He wants to scream, but he cannot breathe.

"I saw him alive!" Hermione screams and it's like disillusionment; he can now hear. He can hear her fingernails scrabbling along the wood; someone is pulling her away from Harry's room, and Harry simply smiles as he hears her dry sobbing that is more nerve-grating than the sound of a spine cracking. "I saw him _alive,_ let me in there, so I can _blow his brains out._"

Harry smiles, even as moist air slaps him cruelly across the face, and rain-saturated wind chills him to the bone.

_I'm sorry_, _but if I hadn't, Voldemort would still be after you and your child, and he would have killed you all._

Harry falls into his sleep this time with a smile on his face.

_I'm sorry, Hermione._

A grunt greets him this time, instead of a cool, calm voice.

"_You finally apologized," _And Harry still smiles; his eyes are closed to reality, even though the white light of the overhead spotlight leaks through his eyelids harshly. _"You're still going to die." _Harry hums, and still, continues to smile.

"_Didn't you hear me?"_ Harry sits down, cross-legged, on his pedestal. He feels oddly smug, oddly content. It isn't happiness, it surely isn't as fulfilling and deep as that, but it's still a feeling, albeit shallow. _"You can't repent for your sins, Harry."_

Harry smiles, even as pale finger tips sink into his flesh like it's nothing more than pudding. They are prodding at his internal organs, and the feeling is one that would make Harry squirm, but he simply opens his emerald green eyes and stares down at the fingers literally sunk into his flesh.

"_Fuck you,"_ The voice whispers, and his grin just widens into a smirk.

_Don't you realize, Harry, that this is the fever pitch?_

He sighs. He groans. He rolls over, and he bolts up.

Awake.

He is awake.

He is living.

Harry gasps with air, like he'd just come up from underwater and hadn't breathed air in ten minutes. He clutches at his chest and literally rolls off the bed, and hits the floor with a thunk.

It's painful, like he's having a heart attack. There isn't enough air for him to take in. If this is what dying feels like…

He coughs onto the floor, dry heaves once, and then finally vomits. The sound of retching and the acrid smell of vomit fill up the silence. Wind rattles the boards beneath his feet. The window behind him shatters.

Harry is in pain, but he is alive, he is alive.

And he is awake, and finally realizes that if this is what dying feels like, he wants so _badly_ to live.

For once, the voice in his head has nothing to say.

Harry's once again greeted with a grunt, but it's of a different kind: not one of annoyance, but one of intense pleasure, and for a minute, he can't believe what he's doing.

He's in pain, his chest feels like his ribs are caving in on his heart, cruelly stabbing it, but that's not what's out of place…

It's the fact that he's naked, as he always been up on his pedestal of shame, but he's down on all floors, _fucking the life out of someone._

The male beneath him is slender and white; in fact, had Harry not actually been _inside_ the body beneath him, he would've been convinced that the other male was just an illusion that could just bleed and melt into the whiteness of the floor.

He's panting, and he's in pain, but the feeling of being inside someone for the first time in his – is it a life? – life is so fucking _fantastic_, and Harry doesn't even care that the person beneath him is so familiar, so painfully familiar. He doesn't, to be honest, care about anything but his own orgasm that's fast approaching even though he just got there.

So he angles his hips, pins down his victim's wrists, and just gives the body beneath him slow, deep, strong thrusts. He doesn't feel the need to go fast – Harry has all the time in the world – and he doesn't feel the need to touch his partner, to give him any reassurance.

After all, this is all about himself; no one else matters, not in this world. So he nastily clamps his teeth down into his victim's neck, listens to his pitiful, agonized whimpers of pleasure and pain, and continues on his set pace.

"Slut," Harry murmurs, "You're just a slut," He groans out, as the body beneath him just stops being so tight and just _gives in_. Moans that are disgustingly needy and filled with frustrated pleasure fill the air; Harry widens his legs and simply drives in deeper, harder. "Widen your legs more," And he can't help it when his erection swells more when the boy obeys his commands. "Slut," Harry whispers again, just as sultry as the moans decorating the otherwise soundless air.

"_Fuck, I…I…Harry…"_ And suddenly Harry's heart just skips a beat, because he realizes just whom he's fucking, whom he's abusing, and he grits his teeth and comes _hard_ because of it.

Perhaps, in another life, the Boy Wonder could bring himself to feel guilty for raping someone. Then again…was it even rape?

"_Harry?" _The boy whispers and Harry can't bring himself to look at the body next to his; can't bring himself to look at the painfully erect, slightly twitching, leaking dick of the man he'd just shamelessly fucked into the floor, _"At least look at me…"_ And Harry can't, he can't, because he just grabs his partner's cock and sucks it down like he loves it, can't get enough of it, and he chokes and splutters and his partner just lies there and fucks his mouth until he, too, comes. It's hot and sticky and long after Harry swallows, he still manages to feel horribly, irrevocably violated.

"Sorry, Draco," And all Harry can bring himself to do is just _laugh, _much more high-pitched than any of Draco's needy moans had been. The pain is still there, finally returning in full force, and Harry flops onto the floor, and waits to wake up.

"_How did you know it was me, Harry?"_

He doesn't wake up.

Realizing this, he closes his eyes, and bites his lip, hard. He doesn't know if it's from laughter, or the sobbing that threatens to rise up from the back of his throat and leak out like saliva from a dry heave.

"I used to dream I was fucking you all the time," Harry croaks out, "I used to want you, before you killed me. Whenever I saw you…it made me feel like…I was at my breaking point, that I was hitting a, no, my fever pitch." And Draco laughs and laughs and laughs and laughs, laughs as he melts into the floor, into the whiteness of the floor.

Harry is frozen, for a few seconds. The aftertaste of Draco's come sticks to his tongue like a vile paste. His pain in his chest – it grows and grows, until finally, Harry is openly crying on the floor, on his pedestal, so high above everyone else, because he put himself there. Maybe he figured that if he placed himself high up, where no one could ever reach, he would never get hurt.

_You were always so far from feverish, Harry. Ever since you left Hogwarts, you had no passion for anything in life. You slaughtered and killed and didn't care at all. I'm glad I killed you…_

_You son of a bitch._

Then, when it finally grew silent, when Harry had run out of tears…

When the rain began to pour down, and the darkness gave way to dark, ebony clouds that thundered and wailed…

Harry knelt in his self-imposed spotlight, and screamed into the sky.

_At least in death, you finally hit that fever pitch._


End file.
